


Sweetest Downfall

by sublime_jumbles



Category: The Following
Genre: Chubby Kink, Fluff, M/M, Vague blowjobs, Weight Gain, Weight Issues, chubby!kink, domestic bliss AU sorta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-08
Updated: 2014-04-08
Packaged: 2018-01-18 10:28:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1425139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sublime_jumbles/pseuds/sublime_jumbles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>in which Jacob discovers that he's been enjoying Paul's cooking a little too much, and Paul discovers that he is very okay with that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweetest Downfall

**Author's Note:**

> beta'd by the wonderful bontaque!
> 
> this is my first piece of kink fic so yeah
> 
> title taken from Regina Spektor's "Samson."

Jacob always wakes first – he has to be at work by seven-thirty; Paul, not until nine – and although he tries to be quiet, he usually wakes Paul anyway, accidentally. But Paul doesn’t mind; he likes to lie in the warm dark of the blankets and listen to Jacob talk to himself as he gets ready. 

He listens to the water running as Jacob washes up, shaves, and brushes his teeth, then rolls over onto his side so he can watch him get dressed. Jacob pulls a sweater out of his closet, examines it, frowns, tosses it back in, and grabs a T-shirt instead, pulling a loose button-down over it. He wriggles into a pair of jeans, hopping from foot to foot, and gets them up around his ass. He tries to button them, but Paul, from his spot in bed, can see what’s not immediately obvious to Jacob: the soft flesh of his waist is beginning to spill over the sides of his jeans, his stomach crowding the button. Jacob whines, fumbling with the button once more before yanking off the pants. He curses under his breath and rummages through his closet for a more forgiving pair of jeans. 

When Paul finally traipses downstairs an hour later, he notices that Jacob ignored the muffins Paul made last night in favor of one of the ripening bananas from the windowsill, and his bag lunch has been conspicuously forgotten in the fridge. Paul sighs. Trust Jacob to turn one pair of snug jeans into a full-scale dietary overhaul. He’ll make some of Jacob’s favorites tonight; that should dissuade him from any stupid ideas he might have about living on meals of singular bananas. 

And he’s right, kind of: Jacob comes home exhausted and eats four helpings of fried chicken and mashed potatoes but declines dessert in favor of dozing on Paul’s shoulder when they’re watching the news afterward. He keeps one eye on the news and one on Jacob, who doesn’t look like he’s sleeping comfortably. His face is creased with a frown, and his bloated stomach rounds out in a hard bulge under his t-shirt. Paul resists the urge to slide a hand under the cotton and massage it – he’s afraid it might wake him, and if Jacob’s going to be uncomfortable, he might as well do it while he’s unconscious. 

By the time Jacob wakes up, the broadcast is over, and Paul has rearranged their bodies so that he’s spooned against Jacob’s back. Jacob shifts, dislodging a stiff belch, and presses a hand against his stomach. Paul watches his frown deepen in profile, and strokes his hair with his free hand.

“You okay?” he asks, and Jacob shrugs.

“Just full,” he says, tugging at the hem of his T-shirt. “I ate way too much.”

Paul’s own insides warm with a feeling that’s a little more intense than a general satisfaction that Jacob likes his cooking. He knows he likes Jacob a little rounder, a little softer, but there’s something about hearing Jacob acknowledge it that tugs at a different part of him. Maybe it’s how vulnerable he looks, lying sleepy and stuffed and soft-bellied in Paul’s arms, or maybe it’s the way his mouth twists when he grimaces against the fullness. Paul exhales sharply.

Jacob pulls one of Paul’s hands to his belly. “Do you think I look chubby?” he asks, and Paul’s brain screeches to a halt somewhere between eye-roll and arousal.

“Right now, or in general?”

He feels Jacob tense. “Um. Both, I guess.”

“Well,” says Paul, struggling, “considering that you just ate enough dinner to feed a small family, you look a little bloated right now, yeah.” He runs a hand under Jacob’s T-shirt, over his swollen belly, and Jacob squirms against him.

“And in general?” he asks.

“I think you look fine,” says Paul carefully. “Why? Did one of your kids say something? Because some of them are just little shits, Jacob, they don’t know –”

“No,” Jacob interrupts. “It wasn’t them. I ... I couldn’t get my jeans on this morning.”

Paul plays dumb, swallows hard. “These?” he says, sliding a finger below Jacob’s waistband. It’s a tight fit. His mouth goes dry.

“No. Those nice ones that you got me for Christmas.”

“Huh,” says Paul, bringing his hand back to Jacob’s belly. He presses down gently, and Jacob burps again, softly, and belatedly covers his mouth. Paul presses harder. 

“Easy,” says Jacob, voice strangled. “That hurts.”

Paul kisses the back of his neck in apology and softens the pressure of his hand. “Better?”

Jacob nods. “Yeah.”

“What were you saying?” Paul asks. “The jeans I gave you, they ... what?”

“Too tight,” Jacob mumbles, and Paul can practically hear him blushing. His hand crawls to the soft part of Jacob’s waist, where extra helpings of Paul’s cooking have taken up residence. Paul loves this. He loves seeing Jacob soft and domestic, loves that he has had a visible effect on Jacob. It means that he’s comfortable, that he’s settled into the groove they’ve worn together. When they first moved into the townhouse, Jacob found all sorts of excuses not to eat dinner with Paul – late meetings, rendezvous with Emma, the gym membership he’s all but forgotten about by now. It took two months for him and Paul to sit down to dinner together without Sarah as a buffer; it was at least one more before he got over himself and began cleaning his plate. And now, well – four helpings is a level of intimacy Paul never quite thought they’d achieve, even after six months. 

“The ones you’re wearing,” says Paul, keeping his voice carefully even, “are they getting tight too?”

Jacob shrugs against him. “A little.” He tenses again as Paul’s hand rests on his belly. “Do you think I’ve gained weight?”

This is something Paul knows as fact; he can see it in the way Jacob’s face has subtly rounded, in the way his belly peeks out when he lifts his arms to stretch, in the little bunches of flesh that have appeared above the waistband of his boxers. It’s not much – maybe fifteen pounds, he thinks, maybe a little more, certainly nothing to be concerned about. 

“Yes,” says Paul, and Jacob rolls to face him. His green eyes are hurt, and Paul splays his fingers through Jacob’s, reassuring. “But I don’t think that’s a bad thing. When I look at you, and I notice that your face is fuller or your stomach looks softer, it’s just ... it’s cute, you know?” It’s Paul’s turn to blush; he’s not generally in the business of calling things cute. Jacob has always been – and, he imagines, always will be – the exception to this rule. 

“Is it?” Jacob asks. He props himself on one elbow and hikes up his shirt, pinching his stomach where it begins to roll. “It doesn’t look ... I don’t know, careless or – or greedy?”

“What?” says Paul, running his thumb over Jacob’s hand. “You’re worried about looking _greedy_?”

Jacob lowers his eyes, blushing. “That’s what Emma used to say,” he mumbles. “If I ate too much.”

“Listen,” says Paul. “If I make you dinner and you eat four helpings of it, that makes me happy, because I’m doing something for you and you’re appreciating it. I like seeing you eat. I like when you overdo it on my food because that means it’s good, and you’re enjoying it. I think you look happy and healthy and satisfied, and I don’t give a shit if you can’t fit into your jeans. I like it a hell of a lot better than those two months you refused to eat with me at all.”

Jacob smiles a little. “This is what I was afraid of, I think,” he says, sliding a hand over the curve of his stomach. “That, and, you know…” He nods to Paul’s arm around him. “This.”

“Lucky for you,” says Paul, his voice snagging, “I’m pretty into both of those.”

Jacob’s glance is the smallest bit skeptical, and Paul shifts so that he’s almost on top of him, careful not to put too much weight on Jacob’s stomach. He kisses him hard, thumbing the swells of fat above Jacob’s hips, where his jeans cut into his skin, and Jacob moans. They maneuver around his distended belly, Jacob grunting whenever there’s too much pressure there, and Paul grabs at all his soft parts. Jacob lets him, squirming when Paul tugs his jeans down and licks the creamy insides of his thighs, and he grunts in a way that’s definitely not discomfort when Paul wraps his mouth around Jacob’s dick.

Jacob comes quickly, with a yelp, panting and shuddering. While he catches his breath Paul jerks himself off, imagining Jacob this morning, struggling to button his jeans, and then imagining Jacob as full as he is right now, trying to button those jeans. It doesn’t take long until he comes, too.

“I’ve got it,” says Paul when Jacob struggles to sit up. He leaves his pants on the floor and pads into the kitchen to grab a handful of tissues. As he’s cleaning himself up, Jacob calls, “Hey, is dessert still an option?” and Paul’s insides warm.

“Absolutely,” he replies, trying to keep the excitement out of his voice. “Ice cream okay?”

“Perfect,” says Jacob, and when Paul reenters the living room, spoons and pint of Haagen-Dazs in hand, Jacob has propped himself against the armrest of the couch, stomach bowing out from under his T-shirt to hover over the waistband of his boxers, his pants shucked to the floor. Paul sits against the opposite armrest, and Jacob eases himself against Paul’s chest, inside the acute angle of Paul’s legs.

“I’m surprised you can still fit ice cream in there,” says Paul, prying the lid off the container. “You look stuffed.”

Jacob shrugs. “I’m gonna try,” he says, taking one of the spoons.

“Don’t make yourself sick,” Paul cautions, and then chastises himself for sounding like a mom. His moments of maternal instinct are few and far between.  
“I won’t,” Jacob assures him, plunging his spoon into the ice cream. “I can eat way more than you think I can. It’s kind of disgusting how much I can eat.”  
Paul watches him swallow the spoonful and dig out another. _Disgusting_ is far from the word he’d choose.

“Can we put the TV back on?” Jacob asks after a few minutes of Paul watching him eat. “I get that you’re kinda into this, and that’s cool, but I just don’t, you know … I don’t like watching myself eat. I get too hung up on how much I’m eating and if I look weird and I would just … rather not do that right now.”

“Oh,” says Paul. “Yeah, sure. Go ahead.”

The remote is closer to Jacob, and he leans forward with some difficulty to grab it off the coffee table. He hiccups as he settles back against Paul, rubbing the side of his stomach with one hand, and flips through channels until he lands on a rerun of _CSI_.

Paul steals a few bites of ice cream throughout the episode, but mostly he watches Jacob, cataloguing the way he licks the spoon clean, the way his throat moves when he swallows, the way he absently rubs and pinches his stomach between bites. By the end credits, he’s scraping bottom, and Paul thinks his belly has gotten visibly rounder. 

Jacob groans, squeezing his eyes shut, and Paul gently takes the spoon and empty container from him and sets them on the coffee table. “Full?” he asks, and Jacob nods slowly.

“Stupidly full,” he says, punctuating the words with a belch. He massages his stomach with both hands, closing his eyes again. “Oh, shit, Paul, I don’t know if I can make it to bed.”

“I’ll help you,” says Paul, laying a kiss on his shoulder. “Come on, sit up.”

Jacob does, slowly, pressing a hand to his abdomen as it gurgles in protest. “Oof,” he grunts, and repeats, “ _Stupidly_ full.”

Paul gets under one of Jacob’s arms and grabs him around the waist, a little current of electricity running through him as his hand meets Jacob’s pudge. He hauls him off the couch, and Jacob groans again. “This was not one of my best ideas,” he admits, but Paul, his fingers brushing Jacob’s love handles, has to disagree. If Jacob’s stomach weren’t being tested already, he’d give them a squeeze, maybe nip at them once they got into bed. He wants to feel every new inch of Jacob, make it his.

They move toward their bedroom, Jacob leaning heavily on Paul and making small noises of discomfort. “Never let me do this again,” Jacob instructs weakly, but Paul knows it’ll only take another of his favorite dinners – buffalo chicken macaroni and cheese, maybe, or the renowned Torres enchiladas – to make him forget all about this request. Jacob doesn’t have enough willpower to pass up a good meal; Paul has learned that much from living with him for almost half a year.

Jacob lowers himself onto the bed as soon as he gets close enough, easing onto his back. His stomach swells beneath his T-shirt, the lower curve peering out. Paul flops down next to him after pulling his own shirt off and tossing it to the floor. “Want me to undress you?” he offers, and Jacob grins, eyes closed.

“You just want to see the damage I’ve done.”

Paul holds his hands up in mock surrender. “I just want you to be comfortable,” he says. “And that T-shirt looks like it’s getting tight.”

“Point taken,” says Jacob, struggling onto his elbows. “Fine, take it off.”

He props himself against the headboard and lifts up his arms, and Paul drags the T-shirt over his head and tosses it beside his own. “Much better,” he murmurs, watching Jacob turn carefully onto his side. He draws in his breath sharply as he takes in the way his bare belly protrudes, the way the soft parts of his sides bunch together between his ribs and hipbone. He settles next to Jacob and kisses him deeply, grabs at Jacob’s midsection and goes hard when Jacob moans into his mouth.

His hands move between Jacob’s little side rolls and his softening ass, until he’s sure Jacob can feel how hard he is. He rocks against him experimentally, and feels Jacob shake his head as their lips meet.

“Too full,” he says apologetically, rolling onto his back. “ _Way_ too full. Try me in the morning.”

“Fair enough,” Paul concedes, kissing his forehead. He moves down to close his teeth around Jacob’s shoulder, to suck at his neck, to lick his collarbone, to kiss down the thin path of hair that bisects his torso. He presses his lips to Jacob’s stomach gently, stroking over it with his thumbs and running his tongue over the smooth, tight skin. Jacob sighs low in his throat, bringing a hand up to the back of Paul’s neck and twining his fingers through his hair. He yawns, and Paul plants a final kiss on the underside of his belly and lies back next to him, trying to quell his mounting arousal.

Jacob inches closer to him, laying his head on Paul’s chest, and makes a little noise of contentment. “You know that shirt I always wear when I visit my mom?” he says.

“The ugly one?”

Jacob snorts. “Yeah. Well, I found an excuse not to wear it anymore.”

Paul’s breath catches. “What’s that?”

“Remember that weekend you went to do that job for Joe in Florida and I hung out with Sarah? We told her you were at some computer conference?”

“Yeah . . .” says Paul, and when he glances at Jacob, he’s wearing the shit-eating half-smile that means this is going to be something that’s going to make Paul want to fuck him more than he already does.

“Well, Sarah and I got wasted on that shitty wine she likes, and we had a pint of ice cream each, and then when I came home …” He pauses, his smile widening, and Paul grinds his lower lip between his teeth. “When I came home, I _might_ have eaten most of the snack cabinet and then replaced it before you got home. And,” he adds, throwing an evil look at Paul, “I _might_ have been wearing that shirt from my mom because you weren’t around to make fun of it, and I _might_ have popped a couple of its buttons.”

Paul’s mouth goes dry, and he swallows hard. “You can’t tell me not to fuck you,” he manages, “and then tell me that.”

“In the morning,” says Jacob, grinning. “I promise.”

Paul pinches his stomach gently, and Jacob yelps, then nestles closer. “I like that you like this,” Jacob murmurs, pulling one of Paul’s hands onto the crest of his belly. “It makes me feel better about it.”

“Good,” says Paul, rolling to kiss him. “You shouldn’t feel anything but good about it, okay? Because it’s hot and it’s cute and fuck what anyone else says, okay?”

“Uh-huh,” Jacob yawns. “And I get to eat whatever I want and get a beer belly and you don’t care, right? Home free?”

“Home free,” Paul confirms. “Now come on. Go to sleep so you’re fresh for the morning.”

“When I said _morning_ ,” Jacob clarifies, “I meant _any time after ten_ , because fuck me if I’m getting up before then on a Saturday.”

“Don’t worry,” says Paul, slapping on his own shit-eating grin. “You can hold me to that one.”


End file.
